


Ain't No Grave

by FortheLoveofJFK (OutshinedtoBlackDays)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-19 06:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11891994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutshinedtoBlackDays/pseuds/FortheLoveofJFK
Summary: She wanted to apologize for even thinking that this was rational—for taking advantage of him and his wide eyes for only these few moments. It only magnified as he reached slightly to pull the skewed sunglasses off of her face. Everything she had steeled herself up for fell to shambles in a quick moment."Holy—holy fuck."While unraveling all the glimmer and glamour of her life, Sansa finds herself on the run and soon on the front doorstep of Jon Snow living on a wing and a prayer.  It all becomes a giant chase with a growing obsession.





	1. Chapter One

After almost three hours of brain-numbing, continuous thud-swish of the windshield wipers, she was able to stop the car. The sound was almost deafening now, only overpowered by the slight purr of the engine and traffic bustling around her. There wasn't much, it was just in the early stillness of a Sunday morning. While the clock glared at her from the dashboard, bright against the dreary and wet—she couldn't get the feel for the time. It didn't seem like it could have been morning. It didn’t feel like it could have been any distinct time. She deemed it much like a daze, like taking a deep nap and waking up to not know anything relevant. In fact Sansa was sure her concept of time was well off, had been since she had left Napa. That had been a day or so ago, she reckoned. It all seemed a blur, to be honest. But every time she tried to process and sit through everything leading up to her entering Seattle, nothing coherent could come to mind.

Sansa took a look around the car, making sure everything was intact. She didn't really look like she should have been driving the thing—it was Margaery's after all. Sansa was all oily skin and mussed hair, compared to the luxury sedan. The leather interior was creamy and white, contrasting with wood grain paneling and the dash and steering wheel’s caramel leather. It came together quite nicely—Margaery always did have excellent tastes. Pretty and white, it was clean and calm. It was a reflection of her life just a few days ago. But now everything was the beaten duffel bag and the crumpled clothing she wore. The car was pristine—while she was a little worse for wear. The odd comfort that came with that brought a rising anxiety that Sansa couldn’t seem to fight. It was odd that something be completely normal, with everything that had just happened. It just…didn’t seem like the peace was legitimate. That dread wasn't curbed as she pulled the Bentley to the entrance of the Paramount.

The wheel slid smoothly through her hand as she turned to the valet parking, the leather stitching bumping her fingers. It was a familiar feeling, something that reminded her of her father. He had always had an ease to him when driving, regardless of the situation or where he was going. And as much as Sansa tried to channel that feeling, her hands were shaking hard. They continued to do so as she slid borrowed sunglasses on her face, tying a scarf around her hair. Sansa took a quick glance in the rearview mirror. She looked more like a tired housewife than a sleep-deprived runaway—which she could probably credit to the car. She continued with persona, however, as she gave Marg's middle name and mother's maiden name without hesitation to the attendant. He wrote everything down with a hasty scribble, another valet coming around to side after she made the motion that nothing was in the trunk. Sansa sat for a moment, watching them with wide eyes as they seemed to move in sync, coming in closer to her. She almost stopped breathing when the other man grabbed the duffel away from her with ease.

Sansa wasn’t aware that the valet stood beside her expectantly, waiting for her to exit. It took everything for her to pull herself out of the car. Keys were squeezed in her white-knuckled hand as she finally stood. It had been five or so hours since she had last stopped for gas, and she could tell as her body moved. She hadn’t really thought about it throughout her drive, but she had been contorted and somewhat hovering over the steering wheel for support. Concern spread on the face of the attendant as she stood to her full height, hand automatically going to her side as a strangled cry came from her mouth. Sansa bit through the pain, bracing herself on the roof of the car to steady herself and take a breath. It was light and shaky, and she could see black spots. She gave the man a short smile, handing the keys off and grabbing her bag from his accomplice. The straps dug deep into her shoulder, but she made no sign that it did.

Escorted to the lobby of the hotel, Sansa kept her head down and thanked both men. Exiting to the sidewalk with much ease, her hands fiddled the strap of her bag as she clung to it. It was something solid and kept her grounded as she made her way through the soft lighting and back into the open. Phone pulled out, she typed in her destination with numb, cold fingers and silently trekked up the street. It wasn't a long journey compared to what she had done, just a mere seven blocks. They went quickly—despite the lack of sleep and eleven hour car ride Sansa had the urge to get somewhere familiar. Her gait struggled, however, and more than once she had to prop up against a light pole or building corner.

The sense of urgency did not leave Sansa's step as she trekked through the streets of Seattle. The waking city unnerved her. She was out in the open, for the first time in two days. She should've have been enjoying the chance of fresh air, taking in the damp morning and having some time to steady herself. Instead it was a brief glance over her shoulder every few minutes. She kept her head down, watching the GPS on her phone and not even daring to catch anybody's eye.

Not that it was much of a problem; it was just delivery drivers and late night cabbies taking home the last of the partiers. When she reached the building it loomed over her, the four stories looking shabby and a bit rugged. Sansa felt very much the same. Hoisting her bag again over her shoulder, she pushed through the front door with no hesitancy and lugged her way up the stairs. She was here—finally she was _here_. It took a good amount of effort to make it up the stairs, and she nearly cried when she got to the third floor. Her knuckles rapt heavily against the wood, the bronze '310' shaking slightly as she did. There was no answer and Sansa cursed. She leaned heavily, closing her eyes as she caught her breath. She hadn’t bothered to call him, in all honesty the number she had saved was disconnected. But Robb had told her not too long ago that he had been back in Seattle for a while—let her know that he had visited him at the old apartment. So she stuck the thought out.

Panic rose in her throat as she thought of what she had to do next. If he wasn't home—she didn't have a back-up plan. She just had this. It was poorly planned and last minute, but it was the only thing she could think of. Had been the only concept she could comprehend since leaving California. It gave her the will to knock again, almost beating the door with the flat of her palm.

"Jon!"

Her voice seemed like a stranger's as it came out cracked and strangled, tightening with the tears rising in her throat. It didn’t sound like herself at all. Nothing about this seemed to remind Sansa of herself. Leaning into the door frame for support, Sansa continued her knocking, a sudden wave of tiredness rushing over her. Ears were muffled as she choked on a sob and she grabbed her mouth to cover the sound. Blood drummed through her ears and brought the crest of tears further. He had to be home. He just _had to be_.

Her spine rolled against the wooden frame, a sharp and hard place. She lost her balance and wobbled from her choice of a crutch, slamming heavily into the front door. The wood opened up at that, nearly resulting in Sansa falling through. She all-but wailed as fingers pulled at her sides and steadied her shaky movements. Blinking back the tears, Sansa stared up into familiar grey eyes. They were puffy and swollen with sleep still, but still fully staring at her. Her gaze faltered underneath the sunglasses, her breath hitching as she saw the comprehension struggle on his face.

“Sansa,” His voice was gruff and like hers ill from not being used. There was another silent moment, “What are you doing here?”

It was a good question. Sansa Stark had not spoken to Jon Snow in nearly three years, besides pre-written Christmas cards she had only sent out after her first year of graduating college. It had been an adult effort, something her mother had suggested she do to “settle in”. The thought clung to Sansa as she watched the worry rise up his brow. He stood there holding her up, keeping her somewhat steady. But she could only imagine the generic holiday greeting with her perfected signature underneath. It blazed through her brain as she saw his mouth moving, the words totally lost on her. She didn’t need to be here. She couldn’t do this to him.

“I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry.”

Her words were frantic and cracking. Pulling away from him with a force that sent her reeling, the strap of her bag caught against her arm. She whimpered, letting it drop completely to the floor in straight pain. Her throat closed as more apologetic words bubbled up, resulting in just another small cry to come out. She wanted to apologize for even thinking that this was rational—for taking advantage of him and his wide eyes for only these few moments. It only magnified as he reached slightly to pull the skewed sunglasses off of her face. Everything she had steeled herself up for fell to shambles in a quick moment.

"Holy—holy _fuck_."


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Everybody!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the loving with comments, kudos and bookmarks! I apologize that this came a little later than expected. Life sort of got in the way.
> 
> Thanks for being patient! This and the next chapter will be dealing with more of the domestic/aftermath, just to give a shout.

The silence that followed his statement was almost shrill to Sansa. It and the consistent thudding of the blood running through her body took to deafening her; heartbeats shouldn't be that loud.  She half-wondered if he could feel the thumping under her skin, his fingers lingered.  His touch was heated and heavy against her, and Sansa moved sharply to rid herself of him.  Hands thrown up softly, Sansa watched him ease back into the doorframe of his apartment.  The arm of the sunglasses twirled in his fingers as he bumped into the wood, coming into an uneasy rest.  Her eyes lay on the sunglasses—expensive and too large for her face.  They were another one of Margaery’s gifts, gracing her only in the past few hours.  They looked absolutely absurd in Jon’s hand. 

It was only the clearing of Jon’s throat that cut off her amusement of this.  She caught his gaze once more, lingering like his hand had—taking in every detail.

“Sansa, please come in.”

She had been so focused on what he was staring at that she hadn’t paid half mind to the words coming out of his mouth.  Hadn’t paid attention to his changed body language, didn’t even notice him swing the door wide open.  She moved slowly, shuffling with picking up the weight of her bag.  The strap once again ate through her shoulder as it caught on Jon’s person.  She was immediately relieved when he grabbed it off of her shoulder, lifting it high and placing it on the ground.

“Thank you, Jon.”  Her own voice startled her again.  Raspy and harsh, her quiet tone echoed throughout the small apartment.  She was met with a short nod, a mop of unruly hair following in response.

It was very much how she remembered it—an off white with mismatched furniture.  The couch was leather and slightly scuffed, only completed by a glass coffee table and brass looking lamps.  There was a bookcase, with the shelves slightly overflowing and a small TV on a stand nearby.  Her eyes danced around every object, pulling her away from the shutting of the front door. An old throw of the Starks lay draped on the back of the couch, worn and threadbare.  It was painfully so much like home.  Or rather just a touch—that led Sansa to believe she had made the right choice in coming to Seattle.

Sansa looked towards Jon once more, staring at her from against his front door.  He was skittish, too.  Perhaps rightfully so as she was acting like a spooked animal. Sansa had half mind that she would not be able to handle the situation if she was at the other end of the stick.  Regardless of who it was.  She swallowed, trying to take the deepest breath she could muster.  Sansa realized she had been halfway panting, taking in shallow bouts of air.  But it hurt to breathe, too.  It hurt to do anything, really.  And Sansa was beginning to feel the effects of her travel—of two days of not sleeping and having her body beaten.

“He did this?” 

The words were woozy, fading in and out as Sansa clutched the arm of the couch once again steadying herself.  Everything seemed to be spinning around and the gravel in his voice didn’t seem to help.

Sansa heard herself say ‘yes’, without hesitation and almost robotically.  “Three days ago.”

His eyes glazed over with something Sansa couldn’t quite decipher—it looked a bit like rage but at the same time seemed as if Jon was struggling to hold back from showing any emotion at all.  She sat down in his deliberation, desperate to gain some sort of clarity.  Her head was spinning and it was becoming too much of an effort to keep her eyes open.  Palms supporting her temples, Sansa swayed even more so as she rested her elbows on her legs.  A thick smell of cedar filled her almost immediately and Sansa felt hands steady on her legs.  She didn’t jump this time, didn’t back away from the touch.  It was solid, warm—and even comforting because she had finally come to a stop.

“Sansa.”

His voice rolled around in her ears—coarse and soft-spoken at the same time.  It echoed as she looked at him through half-lids, making eye contact once more.  He was squatting in front of her with ease, one hand planted on her thigh while another rose to buck her chin up.  His touch was soft in itself, but she found his hand to be just as bristly as his voice.  The pads of his finger were aged and well-worked, so different than what she was used to.

“I need to get you to the hospital, we have to get a statement in to the police,” Jon spoke gingerly, his hand leaving after barely touching a visible bruise.  The anguish in his eyes seemed to heighten as he saw the continuing damage down the side of her neck.

At the moment, it didn’t matter what Jon saw because Sansa panicked.  Her arms flailed, almost smacking Jon, tangling around her torso as she backed further in the couch away from him.  Knees drew up almost instantaneously as well, resulting in Sansa nearly curled up in a ball.  Her breath riddled as she shook her head vigorously, repeating the word ‘no’ over and over.

“Sansa, you need medical attention, you’re hurt-“  He had raised back at her sudden outburst, resting on his haunches and looking completely helpless.  The worry that creased the lines of his face had seemed to deepen even further. 

“I can’t go to the hospital, Jon.  He’ll find me there.  He will find me,”  She broke through with a  strangled sob.  “I can’t let him find me.  I can’t put myself back in his path.”

“Sansa, there are precautions with these kinds of things in hospitals, they have police and-“

Sansa grabbed his forearm then, in a grip that probably surprised Jon as much as it did herself.  Thin, gripping fingers dug into his skin, pleading almost as much as her words.

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” Jon half-called out, trying his damnedest not to raise his voice.  It was still above a few octaves than he would’ve liked to be using with her at the moment.  There was a pause, and Sansa stared at him.  Her hand slid and took a solid hold of his wrist.  Sweat covered her palm, but Jon still felt the desperation in her grasp.

“He _has_ the police.  They are on his payroll,” She spoke slowly through gritted teeth—as if he didn’t understand.  “If I show up in a system there’s no chance.  He has _no_ limitations.”

Her voice was so sincere that Jon had half the notion to believe her, to halt in this small fight.  But it didn’t add up.  Yeah, Joffrey was a piece of absolute shit. Jon wondered if he had the actual capacity to find dirty cops.  Though, Sansa was right.  The Lannisters _weren’t_ limited by any means.

Tears were streaming steadily down her face again, her cheeks reddening despite the mix of purple and black on her face.  It wasn’t a sight Jon had ever seen on Sansa.  It wasn’t one he cared for, either.  He took a breath, running his hand through a tangle of hair.  It was still too early in the morning for any of this—even Sansa on his front doorstep. 

“I went to the hospital right after everything, anyway,” She choked, rising slightly to show him stitches coming from her collarbone.  The pulling of her shirt caused a mild grimace to pass over her features, however, and he watched her contort in letting her muscles relax back into place

Jon took some relief that she had had some medical attention, but the worry was pestering and biting at the back of his thoughts that something was a still a little off.  He wondered if she had called her parents.  They could lawyer her up pretty quickly—get some sort of protection.  But judging from her reaction he was fairly sure that she hadn’t contacted the Starks at all.

“Do your parents know where you’re at, Sansa?  Robb?” 

She became almost beyond hysterical at his words, and Jon felt almost more dumbfounded at it.  She was sobbing again, hand at her side and consistently repeating how she couldn’t contact them by any means. 

“I can’t put their lives into danger, Jon,” Sansa finished, watery and tired.  Perhaps he had been in a daze because he hadn’t heard anything else besides ‘kill them all’.  He had stopped at that, watched her spew everything else out with a dismal fervor.

Sansa couldn’t say anything else, she had already told Jon too much.  He would probably be in trouble if Joff found her.  Hopefully he wouldn’t be dead, though. 

“Margaery let me borrow her car.  I got out in time, but it will only be a short while before he thinks of you, Jon.  I’ll have to leave soon.  I just need to rest.”

Her palm rested on his shoulder, her fingers more light-hearted than they were before.  He stayed on his knees in front of her, completely awestruck at the version of Sansa that sat before him.  Sansa watched him tiredly, almost delirious from putting so much effort into a conversation. She was beyond exhausted, was beyond the aching pain.  She just wanted to rest. 

She watched Jon exhale loudly, lazily watched as he tried to find something to say.  She knew she was overstepping her bounds by coming here, by putting him in danger as well.  It had been the only thing she could think of since she had left Napa, however.  To be back in this Spartan space, to have something that was somewhat familiar as everything else had been denied.  Perhaps he was debating on kicking her out. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable?” 

Her gaze focused at his words, her head raising slightly enough to meet him.  There was something in his eyes again that she couldn’t read, but Sansa saw the sincerity cover everything.  And it was honestly the most securing thing she had experienced in nearly three days.  While it took a great deal of effort, Sansa could only smile at him. 

“A hot shower sounds nice.”

His eyes lit up at the request, Jon nodding almost immediately.  Sansa wasn’t half sure of what room he was in as he walked back and forth, the padding of his feet on the floor becoming a recognizable tone.  It was muddled and broken, however, as she tried to focus on a steady spot.  Things were beginning to spin again and she couldn’t find an anchor.

“The water’s warm, Sansa.” 

Sansa’s head lolled as she tried to straighten up and stand—only resulting in falling in the deep cushions of the couch.  A steady hand slid between the aged leather and her crumped shirt just as soon as this happened, a brace on her spine.  His breath labored only slightly as she pulled herself up with him, almost falling back into his arm.  He kept her in a solid grip, moving with her as she swayed through her steps.  Sansa felt half-drunk.  It was somewhat refreshing at feeling the steam coming off the hot water, and Jon looked somewhat sheepish as he unfastened himself as her crutch.

“Towels are here and some clothes.  Please feel free to use whatever you want.” 

Sansa nodded as he gulped the words out, backing into the room as he continued to talk.

“And, uh—here’s a chair, too,” Jon fidgeted, pulling in the weathered, wooden object.  He placed it in between them, scooting it closer to Sansa as she reached her hand to it.  It was solid, not moving as easily as Jon had placed it.

Sansa said quiet thanks and awkwardly clung to the chair as Jon backed out with reassurance, closing the door not quite all the way and telling her to call if she needed anything.  She stood for a few moments more, pressing against the wall and the wood of the chair, hearing nothing but the steady hiss of water.  This was going to take awhile.

Though the mirror was fogged with steam Sansa saw her own reflection as she worked to pull her clothes off—crumpled and once piled on the floor she saw covered with blood.  She didn’t even know she had been bleeding.  But the blood didn’t bother her as much as the black she saw in the mirror.  It was muddled and skewed from condensation, but Sansa saw the growing blackness on her skin like it was the only thing visible. 

The water was hot as it tore at her skin, needling at places that were open and stinging in response.  It had taken nearly half an hour to get her clothes off and to use the toilet, and nearly just as much time to climb into the shower.  Her body was beyond tired and her limbs had an exaggerated weight as held the chair once more to climb in.  But the quick bite of the water left her in a state of shock.

When she finally emerged it was nearly an hour and she struggled to grab the towel Jon had set out.  It was a slow and painful process, slowly toweling off and attempting to pull on clothes while her skin was still wet.  It was only as Sansa started to pull herself out of the bathroom, her heap of clothes bundled in hand—that she fell.  She supposed it was from trying to scrape by the chair, resulting in her hitting the wall.   The door immediately flew open from its cracked state.

A wet nose greeted her before warm hands, and Sansa struggled to pick herself up amidst a flash of fur and sweatpants.  Jon had her under the arms, pulling her up again as child might have.  She leaned against him, setting her feet straight as she came to her full height.  Her hand danced on Ghost’s head throughout the entire encounter, and she smiled softly at both him and Jon.  Jon, however, looked on with a troubled stare.

“You’re bleeding, Sansa.” 

She shook her head dismissively, finally meeting his gaze.  Her head was getting heavy again and she shuffled against Jon as she tried to regain her balance.  She leaned into him and held her hand on the adjacent counter.

“I actually believe it’s stopped,” She mumbled, fighting everything to keep her eyes open. 

Jon looked her up and down once more, biting his bottom lip.  He nodded, exhaling again.  He moved her more against the wall, opening the bathroom door to its full potential before shooing Ghost.  The dog lingered, however, as he grabbed Sansa fully.  Her head rested against his collarbone, rolling as he tried to shift all her body weight into one position.  Despite the smell of his body wash fresh on her skin—Jon couldn’t mistake the metallic smell rising that was just as strong. 

“Where are we going?” Sansa mumbled as her head fell back again, wet hair plastering to the neck of Jon’s shirt.  It was an uncomfortable feeling as her hair was still sopping—hot and heavy against him just as much as Sansa was.

“I’m going to take you to bed, Sansa.  You need to rest.”

If he sounded disgruntled, he wasn’t sure if Sansa heard it in his voice.  Because she only nodded and lay her head back to him once more, eyes fluttering.  There wasn’t a fight now, and Jon had half the mind to recognize that she had been working on just adrenaline to get here.  He wasn’t quite sure where she had come from—that hadn’t been disclosed to him yet. 

The only thing that Jon could gather was that Sansa was scared.  Not just that, but deeply terrified.  It made him fucking sick.  He didn’t believe that Joffrey had the power to pull cops, but he hadn’t wanted to tell Sansa that.  She was frightened enough and judging by her previous fidgeting and jittery movements Jon wanted to keep her as calm as possible.  Hell, he wanted to keep himself as calm as possible.  As soon as he had seen the purple edging her cheek and paid attention to the red lines on her face?  He had wanted to fucking _kill_ somebody.  But as soon as he had seen the extent of the damage, Jon knew he had the ability to kill somebody.  He just had to make sure Sansa was safe first.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once again apologize for all the time in between. I promise I’m not trying to update just once a month...
> 
> But again, thank you all for the amazing feedback! It is much appreciated.

It was nearly nine by the time Jon sat back down on his couch, his shirt still damp from Sansa and his mind absolutely racing. She was right—the bleeding had stopped. But he couldn't help himself and had watched her for a short while. He noticed the bruises on her arms and wrists, as the rest of her hidden in his borrowed t-shirt. Now that Sansa was comfortable and he was sure she was fine for the movement, he needed to get her some medical attention. It seemed like she hadn’t slept for a while...and she had mentioned it had been three days or so since this altercation.

So, Jon did the most reasonable thing he could think of. He called Sam; who was currently on his way over, having only woken up with Jon’s call. Thankfully Jon had not heard Gilly or little Sam in the background during the call. It gave him some comfort in not bothering a great amount of people. But he wasn’t going to leave Sansa out like that, especially when she literally came bleeding at his doorstep. With her finally resting and Ghost was curled up near her, Jon took to getting her clothes washed and dried. He just hoped he had something to get the blood out.

It would take Sam at least an hour to get over here, so that also gave some time to come up with some good reason of why he needed medical equipment. It had been a quick excuse on the phone, using Ghost as the explanation, but Jon had kept it as broad as possible. The entire situation was just odd. He never would have expected Sansa to just show up unannounced, especially in the condition that he found her. But he was glad she was alive.

He knew she absolutely needed to go to the hospital and he had hopes that Sam would help to convince her. He just hoped that this was a good choice—he didn’t want to hurt her more than what she already was. Jon had half-mind to call Robb as soon as he had seen Sansa, but she had been pretty adamant about not contacting anybody. He was somewhat questioning how frightened she was. It made absolute sense for her to be on edge from what he had gathered—but it wasn’t adding up. She had driven for what seemed like a day or so, while bleeding, and was crying on his front porch step. It was strange and gave Jon the sense that she wasn’t completely hysterical. Just to the point that Sansa didn’t want to go to the hospital was the fact that scared him. He couldn’t imagine being at that point.

For her to even be afraid of contacting the police, even with him present—was nagging him. It seemed somewhat irrational, but at this point he wasn't going to slam her about it. He figured once she had a clear head and a bit of rest that she would be able to help him understand. He was still somewhat amazed that Sansa had come to _him_.

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa woke to the muffled noise of footsteps and a slight slamming.

"I don't know how many ways I can tell you I'm not that kind of doctor, Jon. I'm sure as hell not a bloody hospital!"

She didn't know the voice. It was soft and obviously the person behind it was trying to keep their volume down. Sansa's brain immediately started reeling. The process was muddled and cracked, however, as she attempted to wake up and move her body. Everything was so heavy, and after taking a quick glance to the darkened room—Sansa was very sure she didn't know where she was. Pulling back blankets and sheets she scrambled, tripping as soon as her feet hit the floor. The pain ran like lightning as she hit the hardwood, and Sansa screamed upon impact. Forearms braced she tried her best to get up, only to find her body entwined and tangled with the bedsheets. She fought against them, grabbing her side as a new wave of pain followed her every movement. Sleep still heavy in her eye and slowing her body, she was almost helpless. But she squirmed and slipped, gaining her ground and finally standing with shaking breaths.

The room lit suddenly, a soft white light finding Sansa in a panic. Arms wrapped tightly around her torso, keeping her steady. A rough hand pushed back the mess of tangled hair from her face, warm and heavy against her scalp. The near familiar smell of cedar came to her again, and Sansa leaned unsteadily into the figure in front of her.

"Sansa, are you okay?"

The words were quickly breathed and laid in her ear. Bracing herself against him, Sansa nodded faintly in between shallow breaths. Faintly she could feel the callouses on his palm as his hand slid down her cheek, keeping her in tight embrace. It was a small space, but the focus brought some sense of clarity to Sansa. Her hands latched to his wrists, a loose grip as sleep still had a tight hold on her. Her heart was still pounding at her botched escape attempt, the tension still edging its way through her body.

"I've got you, Sansa. I've got you," Jon mumbled, keeping a constant eye contact. He looked out from under his brows, and Sansa once again found some peace in his grey eyes.

Slowly he sat her back down on the bed, the springs in the mattress groaning from the weight and causing a dip. She sat as straight as she could, keeping her body aligned with his. The stabbing pain in her side did not seem to help with this at all. She all but used him for support, a hand wrapped around his shoulder as he hunched towards her eye level once more.

"Okay, here's the deal. I need you to work with me, help me out a little bit—okay?" Sansa breathed slowly at his words, catching herself every few syllables with a short nod. Jon must have taken that as a sign of acceptance and he continued softly.

"There's a man in the next room, who is a doctor. I need to make sure you are okay, do you understand?"

Panic pulsed up and through Sansa's throat, and she was fairly certain that she was incapable of any speech as soon as he had mentioned any sort of man. The drumming of blood pounded through her ears and Sansa was fairly sure she had stopped breathing.

The hand was present again on her cheek, a soft pressure.

"Sansa, I trust this man with my life. I have trusted him with my life. I wouldn't ask if I had any doubts. Do you trust me?"

She couldn't really make out his facial expression, the room was still mostly dark and any light coming in from the hallway overshadowed his features. But there was a warmth in his voice that was distinctly Jon and right now that was all she had. And so Sansa nodded slowly.

"What's his name?" Her voice cracked and croaked again, sounding possibly even worse than we she had arrived.

"Sam. Sam Tarly. He was previously in service with me, military medic."

She nodded once more, biting her lip. Simple information, for sure. She wondered if this was used as a tactic while Jon was serving.

"What did you tell him?"

Jon's slightly open mouth told Sansa that not much had been disclosed, to which she was fairly relieved. He didn't have much to go on, anyways—but Sansa really didn't care for her recent altercation to be broadcasted about. She nodded in response regardless. Jon whistled a short tone, and soon the pattering of paws and nails came. Ears perked and head cocked to the side, Ghost appeared and sat firmly by his master. Sansa's gaze broke somewhat with Jon for a quick moment, taking in the sudden comfort of the dog.

"I'm going to bring him in, Sansa. I'll be right here. Ghost will too," Jon spoke softly. He had pulled her hand from him and placed into the thick leather collar, the hearty brown color contrasting with the white fur. It was well worn in the spot that Sansa's fingers slipped through.

A stocky and slightly agitated man followed Jon through the doorway in just a few moments time, Sansa noted after some whispers had been exchanged in the hallway. She wouldn't have expected any less, especially in the situation she was giving them. He was biding his time in walking in and Sansa watched him watch her. He gave a faint smile, throwing a hand up in a welcoming gesture.

"H-hello. Uh, Sansa." A long pause followed and the gaze following made him cough. "I'm Sam. If it's okay, do you mind?"

Sansa reckoned his sentence wasn't quite finished as he gestured to what she presumed to be his medical kit and herself. She took a quick glance to Jon, who hadn't broken his gaze. A reassuring nod made her answer, almost robotically, and Sam moved closer. She kept a grip on Ghost's collar, fingers inching from the leather to the flattened fur underneath.

"Hi, Sam." The words were forced out of her lips as he came closer to her rigid form at the side of the bed, Her spine had slightly curved since Jon had sat her down, and it seemed involuntary that she keep a hand to her side. She was faintly aware of the fur rubbing against her bare legs, warm and staggering, as she seemed to keep pulling on the dog. Sansa glanced down for a moment, only to find her knuckles white from their grip on the collar once more. Sam was still nearly five feet away from her while Jon remained at the end of the bed. A ragged breath passed through her as Sansa tried to calm herself.

"So in the hospital, what did they do?"

Sansa looked up, having not heard the first portion of his question. Feeling a bit exposed to the fact that Sam even knew she had been to the hospital weighed heavily in her mind. Perhaps Jon did say more than he had needed.

"Some cuts were stitched and they looked over contusions." The shock varied on both faces, and Sansa continued, her fingers now scratching behind the dog's ears--not too far away from the safety of his collar. "Checked for internal bleeding and took photos for evidence."

The words tumbled out of her mouth without hesitation this time and the tension was visibly noticeable from both men. "Once I was finished being processed I was sent home and I left."

"Sansa..." Jon's eyebrows were high and knitted, pulling with the lines of his face. There was a question forming on his lips and it was obvious Sam wanted to ask as well—but probably would be too polite to. Sansa looked to the both of them before directing her eyes to the floor once more.

"I drove from San Francisco to Napa as soon as I was released Friday night. I stayed at a friend's house, I-" The words died on her tongue as she tried to think of the easiest way to say it. She felt the warm bubble of tears come up her throat, but there was nothing left in her. The motion was just _there_ and painful with no result.

"I was followed."

Sam's mouth was agape while Jon looked at her with a concentration she hadn't seen in a long while. The look was in his eye again, to where he seemed to be completely covering every emotion that was raging. Sansa blinked back a couple of times, aware of the few tears that had followed the statement, despite everything. Her head jerked as she tried to find a safe spot to stare at once more, to avoid the both of them. But she felt Jon's gaze on her and felt the heat rise up her back, from her shoulder blades to her neck, from his stare.

"Two men followed me. They wanted to take me back," She breathed again, watching the ground as the scene replayed in fast forward through her memories. Her hand trembled in Ghost's hair as it skirted near the collar once more. Her other hand, while it had been balancing her on the mattress, wiped the liquid from her face as she sniffled, Sansa could feel her body shaking at this point, not so much from a sob but more from anxiety taking over. She felt so hollow.

"What happened?" The grit in Jon's voice was apparent and heavy, causing Sansa and Sam to look at him quickly. It was demanding.

In response, Sansa let go of Ghost's collar, moving away from the warm anchor. Turning slightly so she halfway sat on the bed, her fingers reached for the hem of Jon's borrowed shirt. Shaking as they worked to lift, Sansa tried to remind herself that this was the reason she was here, this was why she had come to Jon.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys again for everything! This one didn’t take AS long, but hopefully will get the ball rolling for the rest of the story. 
> 
> i feel like I’ve been dragging this out, but wanted to give some perspective before we got into the plot. Hope you enjoy!

If she could have replayed the horror on Sam's face, it wouldn't do any justice. With all the reaction with Sam's face, Sansa didn't dare to look Jon in the eye from straight humiliation. There was labored breathing as she peeled the shirt to expose her side, pulling it up so her ribs were the only thing visible. She staggered in stretching that far and it only took a moment before her spine curled again against the pain. She knew what they had seen, had looked down at the evidence just two days before in a truck stop restroom. It had been more red and biting then, but Sansa gathered her skin had turned to purple and black. Neither of the boys moved, neither made an effort to say anything. So Sansa sat in silence.

Her hair still hung in a damp sheet in front of her face, shielding her face as she once again found solace in the thick strap of the dog's collar. Her fingers gripped and readjusted around the leather, bringing back some form of comfort once more. The shirt had since shifted back to settle well below her hip and kept everything hidden. She was startled when colder fingers edged around the t-shirt, a ghost of a touch on her forearm. Jon's eyes found hers in a fury.

"Let me see."

It was softly spoken and almost tender—and Sansa realized of how quickly she had shown and hidden everything. She nodded ever so slightly, her chin in grip of a calloused hand. Jon's touch was delicate and hesitant and put so much focus into her that Sansa was hardly aware of anything else happening in the room. He called her sweet and brave and promised that he would make this better. It all swirled around in her head muffled.

His fingers were just as cold as he inched the shirt up again, taking great care to not overexpose her. To not move as he did so helped with the breathing and sharp pains, more so than when she had shown them herself. He positioned himself between Sansa and Sam, a solid blockade. His hand spread evenly across her ribs, seemingly taking notes as he explored. Sansa could feel him, how his palm gingerly danced across her skin. His fingers traced and barely touched in an almost fear, the joints heavy and locking. His face remained stoic, however, and the only sense of emotion she could find on him was the concentration creasing in his brow.

"I'm sorry I grabbed you," Jon mumbled letting the shirt fall back down, "please know-"

She put a hand on his shoulder, leaving the warm sanctity of Ghost and settling on him securely. Her breathing hitched as she moved, and his hand slid to the jut of her hip to support. Sansa shook her head demurely, nearly resting it in the crook between his neck and shoulder. She was tired and aching. And so her little movements caused the words to die in his mouth, taking careful hold of her body.

"You didn't know, Jon."

He let her prop up against him, moving so gingerly that Sansa couldn't tell if she had shifted positions or not. A wrong move made for her to cry out, causing the dog to jump without hesitation. His wet nose pushed firmly against Jon's hand and Sansa's leg, the furry body following suit in tension.

"Sweet boy, I'm fine. We're fine," Sansa choked, her hand once again laying on his head. Her fingers didn't seem to have enough strength to scratch or even move—they were just solidly planted.

Jon looked from the dog to her, his breath shaking as he stared at her. Pity swam amongst other things and Sansa's tired eyes held his gaze without question. It lightened for a moment and he leaned his head somewhat closer to hers.

"Do you think Sam could take a look, Sansa? Make sure everything is set into place?"

She nodded, giving a quiet yes. Jon took it to heart, his arm extending to her lower back. Moving so that her arm draped around his shoulder, he picked her up with the slightest of ease. It did take some extra effort to make sure her side wasn't pressing, and he gave an apologetic sorry when she winced and hissed. As soon as Sam had seen what he had been doing, he scurried to move the pillows in the bed behind the both of them, building and propping them up so that she would be elevated and comfortable. Soon she was laid across the bedding once more, bruised legs and arms amongst Jon's distraught comforter. To Jon's protest Ghost joined in beside her, laying firmly with his snout in the crook of her underarm. She waved dismissively as he tried to pull the dog off, it wasn't worth fighting over.

"I will need to get you some muscle relaxers, I'll be right back," Sam sputtered quietly, taking careful time for Sansa's response and fidgeting the whole while. He moved quickly to the next room when she gave him a brief nod. Amongst some things falling in the other room Sansa heard a distant curse.

"I'll be right back," Jon mumbled, not making eye contact as he moved swiftly out of the room almost as Sam had.

* * *

 

"They're to the left, Sam."

Jon watched as his friend pulled prescription bottles from his medicine cabinet, a majority of the pill bottles laying in his sink basin. Sam's hands were shaking as he turned to Jon, too many questions raising in his mind. Sam fingered a bottle of painkillers as well.

"Her skin is almost all black," Sam mumbled mostly to the wall. Jon had seen that, at least on one side of Sansa

"She needs real medical attention, not just me."

Sam had been talking for the past few minutes, hushed whispers and trying to catch Jon's eye. But from the moment that Sam recognized what they had both seen, had mentioned that something was horribly wrong with Sansa—Jon had lost all sense of being. Somewhat of a daze, he could only wonder what she had been through to bring her here.

"Jon, she needs a hospital. I can't tell if anything has caused any internal bleeding. She could be-"

Jon's hand slammed against the countertop, smacking as he tried to tone his voice down.

"Dammit, Sam I know that! She has a fucking boot print embedded in her ribs!"

Breathing shallowly, he caught the gaze of his friend once more. Shaking the oiling mess of his hair and running a hand through the wild curls his voice broke in a quiet tumble. "But, I can't do that to her, I can't force her."

Jon leaned his back against the counter and cabinets, still somewhat wet with late condensation from Sansa's shower. It seemed the dampness followed around. He looked up to Sam, tongue running over his teeth. He had tried to run through every situation since Sansa had went to sleep—had tried his best to figure out what the best move would be. He had never dealt with this sort of thing before. Had never seen someone so bruised and beaten over what seemed to be a trivial matter.

"Can you at least check her first?" Jon pleaded, finally coming to —Sam's bewildered stare. "Maybe everything is in place. Maybe she won't need a hospital."

Sam huffed in response, breaking Jon's gaze for a moment. His fingers rolled and played with the white lid of the prescription, the pills inside rattling loudly as he shook them around.

"You need to get some ice on her muscles. Honestly shouldn't have let her take a hot shower—they needed ice first. But I will try, Jon. I will _try_."

Sam was almost worried as Jon left a relieved hand on his shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief.

"But if I can't do anything, just let me take her to the clinic. That's as low risk as I can get."

Jon nodded, blinking as the acknowledgement started to dawn. Sansa would not be happy about that and he did not want her frantic again, especially where Sam would question his judgment. Swallowing the anxiety and pressure coming up his throat, Jon withdrew from his friend with a long-winded sigh.

"Gimme those," Jon motioned, holding his palm out for bottles. Sam gave them with hesitancy, having still not gotten a full answer from Jon. "We can at least get her ready in case she needs to be moved again, Sam."

In response Sam popped the child lock and opened both orange bottles—taking out what he thought she may need. Based on body weight and her expressions it was difficult. But he settled with what he had, setting them in Jon's weighted hand. Sam dutifully filled a disposable paper cup made for brushing teeth with tap water from the sink, his fingers sticking on the lip as they were the cheap, kids brand. His hand stilled at the basin, eyes brought to the residue on the counter. Sansa's blood raised from the flat surface, giving some color to the off-white and dulled linoleum. It had almost dried at this point, barely black and thick in concentration.

"We have to take her, Jon. I have to call Gilly."

Jon hated it. Absolutely hated that they were referencing Sansa as an object, tossing back a casual 'her' like a tennis match in both of their efforts to spare the effect Sansa's name brought about. Her injuries were defining her and making her a menace all in one swoop. Perhaps it was easier for Sam to reference her as such, as he really didn't know her. Jon, however, felt the ball in his stomach grow tighter as every instance seemed to pit him against her. He knew Sam was right, had known all along. But there had been the inkling of an idea in the back of his mind that she wasn't as bad off as he thought—that he was over compensating because she was Sansa Stark, and nothing that horrific could ever happen to her. Jon could only bow his head in acceptance.

* * *

 

He wanted to pummel Joffrey Baratheon to a quivering mess as he strode into his bedroom, Sansa strewn against his unkempt bed. Her shallow breaths and consistent jerking gave way to the underlying problem once more, and Jon felt like an absolute fool that he hadn't noticed these blaring signs. A wave of nostalgia rushed over him in that moment, choking the words in his mouth. Maybe it was the red hair and staggering respiration, perhaps it was even the weakened body laying in something so familiar to Jon that made it hurt.

_That sorry sack of shit._

"Sam is very nice," Sansa croaked, eyes not even attempting to open as she acknowledged his presence.

The bubble thickened in Jon's throat once more and he averted his gaze to the corner of his room, now covered with hazy sunlight and a heap of unfolded laundry. The pills rolled around in his palm and he tried to release the tight grip he had on them once he realized. His lip quivered as he sniffed.

"He's a good friend."

Jon paused before heading towards the bed, the water in the paper cup daring to tip as he squeezed its dampened edges. He said nothing and sat once she gave no response.

"We need a compromise, Sansa."

There was the ragged inhale and exhale, both short and demanding as her eyelids flew open in a hurry. There was tension spread across her forehead, causing creases every few seconds as he watched her. He had hoped for a neutral reaction, something where she finally wasn't fighting back. He understood it. In fact he relished in the fact that she was still fighting. But he didn't want her fighting him. Not when she had gotten this far. Her tongue dragged across her bottom lip and Jon could barely see emotions beyond the misty tiredness in her eyes.

"Sam can't give quality treatment here, as good as he is. Wasn't a field medic."

His attempt at a joke landed nowhere near her, and Jon's chin bunched in recognition as he realized she wasn't going to give in or up so easily.

"There's a clinic that both he and his wife run. Mostly under the radar, we could have it without paperwork. He's worried about the internal bleeding, if there is any. He's worried about the external bleeding."

"I'm not bleed-”

”Now I promised not too long ago that I would make sure you were okay and regardless of what amount of sleep I've had, I will not take that back. It would be nice if you are comfortable, but I need your absolute trust."

There was a silence, heavy with tension and Ghost's soft snores. Jon's finger rounded the rim of the cup, the paper starting to lose its waxed edges as he splashed liquid. He nodded as she gave no answer, no movement as to relay what she was thinking.

"I just have one question, Sansa."

Her voice was broken again and barely audible.

"What might that be?"

Its soft edges held a harshness, and Jon supposed he should be used to the brash tone in her given the ultimatum he had presented.

"Why did you come to me?"

He sounded much like a child, questioning an authority figure and treading unstable ground. But truly, honestly—he could not figure out her reasoning for coming to Seattle. He was sure she had plenty of local friends, friends away from the Baratheon scum.

"And I'm happy that you did, I just-"

The soft rubbing of fabric gave way to her movements, and Jon sat straighter as he saw Sansa sit up straight, his green comforter balled tightly in her fist.

"I tried to think of the last time I felt safe."

Jon nodded at that, a swell of pride bubbling in his chest. He knew the exact moment she was thinking of—a family trip some years back that ended with Arya almost getting an underage drinking ticket and Robb sprawled out on his wooden floors instead of the couch. It had been a memorable weekend with the eldest Stark children, something of a last hurrah before he entered his first deployment and Sansa fully moved west for college. He felt selfish, but Jon took comfort that she trusted him in that aspect.

"You are safe with me, Sansa. I can promise it. So, will you let me help you? It's the best way I know how and looking like our only option."

The gravel warmed in his throat as he spoke, his palm spreading to offer up the drugs that he was near afraid had melted into his skin. Upon seeing the casing still in tact, he held the cup up as well. It wasn't quite a smile that came to his lips when she took the peace offering, but to his judgment she took it as such and gave a pained grimace in turn of a grin.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> I’m finally back with a little something. Again just some pieces to pull everything together.
> 
> Finally got some things together in life myself so I’m happy to be motivated to write this again! Again thank you for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks! I appreciate and love them all. Hope you all enjoy :)

"You know you're lucky to be alive."

It was the first coherent sentence Sam had uttered since he had ordered Jon out of the room, since there was not enough space to have Sansa comfortable while he tried his best to x-Ray her. It was awkward, full of some kind of tension and Sansa still felt in a daze. Delirious from being awake for so long and, pumped full of medication, she was left wondering if this was all a dream. Perhaps she had said that, because Sam could only give a sympathetic stare—washed over with pity.

Sam had already run through everything with the machine, which lagged behind as it was a one-manned production as opposed to the norm. But he praised Sansa for being diligent in waiting (she wanted to protest that she had no other choice—but Sam was far too nice to fight with and in all honesty she had no strength to). He was a patient man, though, as Sansa was coming to find out.

"Do you have to say that often?" Sansa croaked after awhile, her eyelids fluttering as he shuffled to turn fluorescent lighting back on. The papers being shuffled in Sam's hands fell to the floor in a quick and dramatic flurry.

"I don't-uhh-Sansa, I'm not-"

Her words were used in the simplest of terms, but perhaps there had been some bite behind them. Sansa just wondered if somebody could see so much grief and still have the audacity to even smile. Sam had some recognition, however, and held her gaze despite his staggering words. His mouth sloped down as the sentence lingered near his tongue, hesitant to come out and meet her reaction. In the end, he nodded and began to straighten up the equipment.

"Unfortunately too many people have heard a variation from me. Whether I want to say it or not."

Sansa took him into account for a mere moment, before giving a brief smile. It was short and pained, a struggle to pull back and show teeth. "Don't tell me if you wanted to this time."

His eyebrow raised in question, noting just how sharp her voice could be. He wasn't sure if she had meant it as harsh as it had sounded, but accepted it all the same. She didn't want pity, that much was evident.

"I will say," and he stopped before moving out of the room to get a full view of her pictures on the screen in the adjacent room. "You're lucky you chose Jon. I'm fully expecting him to rip my head off when I open this door."

Sam's chuckle brought Sansa to a sense of understanding, made light by Sam's somewhat awkward bed side humor. She smiled at him again—this time without question or venom.

* * *

  
Jon sat in a plastic chair just out in the next hallway, limbs sticking out awkwardly as he was continuously trying to get comfortable. It was becoming an increasingly difficult issue. For the past hour and a half he had been stuck in this hall, caught in between Sam's words of him smothering Sansa along with the security alarm and locked front door. He felt like he couldn't move. He trusted Sam, he did. But he felt terrible at leaving Sansa alone with him. With somebody she didn't know and after everything she had said that happened. He wondered if she would hold that against him. That he left her alone. That after coming to him he had just left her alone.

So he had pulled his cell phone out, sitting it in his lap for the span of time that he heard rustling in the next room. He had toyed with unlocking the thing, scrolling through a short list. His finger had hovered for a moment, before he had hit the home button and throwing the thing in the chair next to him. The first time had come out of pure frustration, the second because he was scared shitless when he heard them rattling around in the next room. Guilt had washed over him and he had thrown the phone down in haste. That time he had almost called.

After seeing that they still were not out of the room, Jon decided that he needed to stop fucking around. Because it seemed like her life was at stake (he thought increasingly so with the minutes that had ticked by— _why in the fuck wasn't Sam rushing with her?_ ), he knew he had to make the call. He unlocked his phone with an old and worn code, the damn thumbprint reader having died too long ago—and clicked the number. It rang. It was a loud and echoing sound, beating and thrumming as loud as Jon's heart. It also lasted for- _fucking_ -ever. There was a sickening relief as the automated tone went to voicemail, and Jon ending the call before it could get to the beep.

Oh, _fuck_.

When Sam started down the hallway, Jon was pacing. Burning a hole in the tile, he kept walking back and forth—only stopping when he saw his friend. If anything, his thunderous heartbeat seemed to come to a stop upon seeing the sheets in Sam's hands.

A release of pressure came when Sam nodded, like a floodgate had been opened. She was okay. Well, okay under the circumstances.

"What's the extent?"

It had taken a minute for Jon to compose himself, to finally breathe and try to clear his mind.

"She's got a broken rib, three more bruised. Nothing else big broken and no internal bleeding. Could be a sprained wrist? It's looking like she fell pretty hard at some point."

Fuck, that was not exactly what he was hoping to hear. In all honesty, he wanted that original thought that he was being too dramatic. That he was overcompensating for all of Sansa's bruises and ragged breaths. He felt fucking stupid to even deem that possible.

"Everything I could spot and checked outside are from contusions and lacerations. Stitches split in about four places. There's enough swelling around her orbital bone that something could be circulating--but her vision is still good and there's no swelling on her brain so I think she's in the clear."

His nail caught in a tangle and snagged leaving Jon to curse as his fingers had once against shifted to drag through his hair. It was beyond oily by now and it had gotten to the point where it irritated the callouses on his palm. But, fuck. She wasn't dying.

"Does this mean clear, clear?" Jon mumbled, finally catching up with Sam as he shuffled through his papers. Sam's eyebrows shifted at the wording, and he didn't want to answer. Jon could see he was trying to hold back from saying what he thought (and when did that ever happen before?).

"Treatment would probably be better in a hospital, but I've wrapped her ribs up and re-stitched what I could. If anything else happens she needs to go to a facility. I hope you know that."

Jon swallowed, that burning sensation heady and unwavering as it climbed up his throat. He knew that, of course.

"If it gets worse, that's what I'll do," He huffed. If it came to that, hopefully Sansa would realize that she was safe with him and wouldn't need some quick and hasty medical attention to get by.

"You need to get her home. She needs rest and probably some food once this first round of drugs wear off."

Jon nodded, almost morosely, and followed Sam as he started back into the examination room Sans was in. On the backhand he picked his phone up, subconsciously flipping it so the screen turned in as he slipped it into his back pocket.

He missed the notification banner on the screen.

* * *

 

Sansa was buried in his comforter a few hours later, having not moved since Sam and Jon had returned. The medication and sleep deprivation seemed to hit her like a train and, once, Jon felt like his heart rate could return to normal. It had been all high anxiety ever since she arrived, which felt like it had been only a few moments ago--but in all actuality had nearly been twelve hours. It had been a whirlwind, a complete and total rush.

Jon didn't every think he would see the day that Sansa Stark would end up on his doorstep for any immediate need. It still baffled him that she had said she she felt safe with him—but he wasn't going to question it for now.

She had just showed up in his life again. Out of the blue and asking for all his help. He was trying to not let that go to his head, and trying to keep his anger at bay, as he sipped through a glass of whiskey.

It warmed his throat and kept his hands steady, he only noticed they had been shaking once Sansa had been returned safely to his apartment. He was sprawled in his kitchen chair (way more comfortable than those rickety piece of shit ones in the clinic), and let the oil of his fingers smudge the glass as he kept a steady grip. He was on his second glass, having poured and left the first sitting for a long while after Sam had left.

Perhaps it was the memory of the Starks that haunted him at that point, a ghost of when he was young and carefree—possibly even truly happy. He thought it was more so that Sansa evoked a more recent nostalgia in him that he would rather not remember. That part made him sick. The events of the past year tore and picked at him daily.

And this was how Jon found himself fiddling with his phone. Again spinning it around by the corner in his fingers, he tapped it ever so often against the table with a gentle thump. He had something to follow up on. _Fuck_.

 _Here it goes_.

Jon rose from the table without a sound, setting down his empty whiskey glass after gulping the last few swigs. His feet padded softly, making a slightly pressured sound as he drifted across the hardwood, creaking at the older and bent boards. It was still a light touch, however, and he almost glided down the hall to his bedroom. The door clicked open, shedding the glare of light on the bed. The only movement came from Ghost, who's head raised in recognition of the noise and Jon.

The dog returned to his previous position and Jon gave a half-hearted smile to the girl sleeping soundly beside him. He hoped she would understand why. Instead he closed the door again, moving soundlessly as the wood pulled through the frame and swayed gently with the suction. He held it steadily, anticipating every noise and creak in his old apartment. Sansa was well knocked out, and even though he had this confirmation, Jon felt like she could hear every single thing he was doing, from the blood pumping heavier through his veins to the thoughts blasting so loudly they seemed to reverberate through the walls. Perhaps that was a little bit of an exaggeration, but Jon was fairly sure that all of his movements were predictable as made his way back to the kitchen.

He picked up his phone again, holding it with an alcohol-steadied hand. It tipped lightly in his palm as he stood there, trying not to chicken shit out again. Giving one glance down the hall and knowing—knowing that Sansa would have no knowledge or no conscious protest to what he was about to do, he clicked the main button.

The red notification hovered over the phone icon and he pressed it lightly without hesitation this time. Pressing the name under it again was no problem. The air still hung in his lungs as he waited for the phone to ring ( _dear God would it just go to voicemail again_?)

"Jon?"

The voice was loud to his ear, echoing again through his apartment.

"Jon is everything okay? Man you've called me three times-"

Jon felt his lungs deflate as he exhaled, all the pressure going out in one swift moment.

"Hey, Robb."


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you for all the lovely comments, continuing kudos and bookmarks and support. I feel like life keeps getting in the way of me writing this fic. It happens. But in any case I plan to put full focus on this story. I cannot tell you how much angsty ass music is needed to crank out a chapter. 
> 
> That being said i have a playlist in the works if anybody is interested in the near future whenever this story actually gets to the good part :)
> 
> Thank you again and hope this is enough until next time.

It was dark again when Sansa woke up.  The last vestiges of peace wrapped and spread throughout her, but nothing was quite coherent. For the briefest moment she felt calm, before she was caught up in quiet panic.  Her breathing hitched, her chest ached, because the place she was laying in was so strangely familiar. She felt sharp whisps of pain blaze through every limb, like a hazy alarm that roared through her body, causing terror to rise and curdle in her throat.  

 _Oh, God_.

The surge of sickness rushed like a wave as she reached out, fingers anticipating to grip the dirtied fibers of carpet again. It didn't feel as hard as the floor, but of course, Sansa thought, her cheek had laid on the floor for so long that she must have forgotten how coarse it was. Surprise followed as her fingers dig into a mountain of fur instead, thick and warm against her.  Confusion swept through Sansa as she relished in the soft touch.  A bundle of cloth followed in her wake, some parts thick and softer than others.   _And, oh_.  This wasn't Napa.

A breath of relief rushed through her lungs with a warm, renewed sense of comfort.  Her muscles began to steadily relax, and her eyes met up the dog beside her.  He jumped at her touch, tail thumping and ears alert with her sudden movements.  A ghost of a smile reached her lips, and Sansa shook her head.  She had left them in California.  Everything was left in California.  

It's hard, though.  Hard to swallow down everything so easily as if it could be contained so simply and pushed into one single problem.  While California was hours and miles away, it still loomed over her.  Held her captive in every thought and movement, or lack thereof.  No matter the distance or time, Sansa knew that she wasn't safe. Not yet. 

* * *

 

" _That piece of shit did_ what _?"_

_Jon sat silently for the moment, hearing the many more curse words spew out of Robb's mouth with no filter, nor complete sense of direction._

_"I'm getting a flight, I'm coming to get her—I'm going to fucking kill that worthless-"_

_"I don't think she's too able to travel right now, Robb.  She's going to have to have medication and-"_

_Robb's voice caught up to him once more, breaking in as Jon had done without much deliberation.  "I'm going to call Dad right now, he will have a whole fucking team of lawyers on this.  How_ dare _that motherfucker think he could lay a hand on my sister_."

_Jon listened as Robb rambled once again, more or less repeating himself with a new wave of gusto anytime he said Joffrey's name.  Raking his fingers through his scalp, he let them linger in the aching circle around his skull.  The skin seemed to throb underneath his touch, only intensifying with Robb's decibels.  He had experienced quite the same level of emotion when he had first seen Sansa, but it had to be muted.  The fury that had run through him was almost feral.  But upon seeing the dazed and somewhat helpless look on Sansa--it had vanished in an instant._

_"—I will pummel this fucker if he ever thinks—"_

_It was a useless battle to try and silence him.  Jon had known for awhile that if given the chance and right measure that Robb could be long winded_. But, fuck.

 _"Listen, I'll make sure she's safe.  I'll keep her safe, make sure she's okay until you get here.  Listen, you guys come out here in a bit, don't just hop onto a plane.  She seemed pretty spooked earlier, Robb. She spoke to the police already—so just be prepared with those lawyers._ "

 _The haze of alcohol was wearing off, and Jon was becoming painfully aware of his steadying soberness.  He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to will the words to come out, anything that could be more than just he said.  But that's where he was caught.  Repeating that he would take care of Sansa in some sort of futile effort to calm Robb.  He had started and stoked the fire, he knew.  But Jon couldn't bear the thought of just being the only one to know about Sansa.  It felt_ _quite odd to begin with as they had never really been that close.  However, the simple attempt worked pretty well._

_"Snow, you will keep her safe?  You promise?"_

_"Of course, I promise.  She's more than safe here.  She's too far away.”_

* * *

 

The darkness lingered when Sansa woke again.  It was pierced only by a dim light, yellow and shining through the cracks in door frames and blinds.  She laid for a few moments, noting that the dog was no longer in the bed, and that the door was cracked just a bit.  Heat still radiated in the empty space beside her.  Lazily she searched the bedroom, attempting to find a watch or even a radio clock—but nothing stood out.  She could only wonder how long she had slept.  A couple hours of rest had done her good, clearing her head somewhat.  That, and the pain were bringing her to a full consciousness.  

Perhaps it was the medication wearing off, or maybe Sansa had just turned in the wrong direction in her sleep.  But the continuing ache of pain shot through her side.  Realizing she had the full effect of the injury without medication and adrenaline caught up with her almost too quickly.  The bandages wrapping her chest were secure, however, and left some sort of comfort in their bracing.  

Padding softly through the short hall to the living room and kitchen proved to be much easier than she thought it would be, Sansa still keeping a steady grip on the wall through her trek.  The pain in her side was starting to mount again, a jagged cut coming in with every breath.

"You shouldn't be out of bed."

Jon's voice cut through her mental pep talk, urging her to take every step forward.  His tone was quiet, however, and he could only give a small, shadow of a smile.  He stood instantly, coming to meet her with his own hands.  Sansa fought the compulsion to recoil, only taking a moment to account for his body balancing her own.  It was sturdy and warm, taking the small steps right along with her.

"I just feel like I need to keep moving," Sansa mumbled some time later, her brain catching up with whatever had been coming out of his mouth.  He hadn't said much, but Sansa was certainly lagging behind.  Trying to process anything was becoming difficult.  She figured the delayed responses and lack of clarity were coming from lack of sleep mixed with medication.

"It'll keep your muscles active, they'll heal well."  

His tone held some sort of knowledge, and despite everything swirling around in her head Sansa had some childish urge to want to know why there was so much sincerity in is voice.  But she was interrupted when a buzzing caught up to her ears, followed by a familiar tone.  Her heart beat erratically as she tensed up, feeling Jon do the same. 

"That's my phone."  It was the only thing Sansa could get out of her mouth, again having some sort of ragged delay.  

It took the longest moment for Jon to go and grab it, rifling around in the forgotten duffle at the door.  He had left Sansa to herself, leaning against the wall.  His eyebrow raised drastically as the chorus to Kendrick Lamar's HUMBLE echoed and repeated.

"... _bitch be humble, sit down-_ "

Sansa shook her head, giving a small laugh at his reaction.  It was probably appropriate with the lyrics.  "It's just Margaery.  Her humor-"

She was only given a small nod, iPhone placed in her palm.  She swiped without delay, thankful that it had gone so long without going to voicemail or Marg hanging up.

"Sansa, thank God!  Are you okay?"

The usual silk in Margaery's voice sounded quite raspy and urgent, leaving Sansa to believe that she probably knew about Napa.  Or at least the property damage.

"Margaery, I'm fine," Sansa felt her breath catch as tears bulked up, "I'm in Seattle."

"Gran just called and said that the police have left the house—Sansa what happened?  Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

Closing her eyes for the mere moment, she was caught Jon's gaze when she finally opened and she was fairly sure he had heard the shrill voice rise from the speaker.  There was a silence as Sansa breathed, breaking away from Jon as she had to rehash the details again.  She kept it simple, kept it short.  

"Joff sent somebody to get me from Napa, Margie.  I'm so sorry there was damage to the house—I took the Bentley and left.  It's at the Paramount now and it's under-"

"Sansa Stark, you swear to me that you're okay?"

Sansa's breathing hitched, "I put under the usual name, Margaery.  I'll pay for all the damage, please let Olenna know that.  I just need-"

Sobs were barring her voice, constricting air flow and causing that warm and tense feeling to close around her throat.  She tried to rush everything into one sentence, to try to apologize for everything she had ruined in the past couple of days.  Because it was all of her fault.

"There's insurance for that bullshit, Sansa.  Are you safe?”  The question hung with Margaery's demanding tone.  Sansa relished in it, to have something more than sympathy.

"Of course, I'm with Jon.  Jon Snow, you remember him, don't you?"  The words curled off of her tongue like she was discussing an issue over brunch.  So casual in mentioning Jon's name.  No mention of her passing out and bleeding in his bathroom. 

Sansa realized her brain idled along again as Margaery's voice became demanding in a soft instant, insisting that she put Jon on the phone immediately.  It didn't take much coaxing, as Jon had heard through the volume turned up on the phone.  He grabbed it with gentle ease, raising it to his ear without hesitation.

"This is Jon Snow."

Sansa couldn't hear much, she was seemingly caught in this muffled state of, well, everything. But every so often she would pick up a word or two, hearing Margaery with steady and sometimes quick words.  Sansa was fairly sure that Jon had never met Margaery, and that Marg had heard everything through secondhand stories.  Given that this was their first interaction, she was surprised at how smoothly it was going, despite the situation.

Sansa sat at the kitchen table as Jon moved with her phone, listening with rapt attention.  

* * *

 

"—she is so very important to me, Jon.  Please tell me she's not lying."

Whatever he had expected to come out of the other end of the phone—it was not the quick-witted and silver tongued voice.

"She is okay," Jon managed to gruff out, chancing to look at Sansa once more.  From what he had gathered she had given Margaery skim details just as she had with Sam and himself.  He had been half listening as he watched her talk through the phone.  Her voice had perked up almost immediately until she had started crying.  

"We've had everything taken care of through the hospital.”

_Lie._

“She's resting here in my apartment."

"So, he was worse this time."  The words came out in a rushed whisper, almost as if Margaery had come to a conclusion in one breath.

Jon gave a dark chuckle, venom seeping through his brain as he processed the sentence she had uttered.   _This time_.  He choked down the turbulent words racking up his throat.  Coughing, he brought himself back to the conversation

"I suppose I need to get Sansa's belongings and make sure everything is handled.  Work, Lady, and everything taken care of for now.  Could you go get Lady?"

Upon hearing of Ghost's litter mate, Sansa's head jumped up so quickly.  Shaking it vigorously, she could only mumble that Margaery was in Europe.  It wasn't possible.  Jon gave her a short nod, leaning back into the phone 

"Is there some place you could board her, then?  Arrange for that?"

"She hasn't told you?"  

Margaery's voice cut through him very quickly, Jon deflating at the softness of the accusation.  

"What, exactly, needs to be told?"

There was a long pause and breathing on the other end that told Jon that Margaery probably knew more than Sansa thought she did.  

"Can you put Sansa back on the line, please?"

He handed the phone over in one smooth movement, locking eyes with Sansa as he did.  She stared at him with glazed eyes, red-rimmed and void of any emotion.  There was just some sort of emptiness that came with them.  It didn't leave this time as she started talking to Margaery once more.  She broke his gaze, though, and stared at the wood grain on the table as her conversation finished out.  Blunt nails scratched and caught on the wood at some point, finding the areas where the finish had finally worn off.  Sansa dug into it carelessly as Margaery continued on.

"I'll let you know," Sansa murmured, finally letting the phone thump beside her fingers.

She didn't look at Jon for the longest time.  Finally, she took a deep breath.

"Margaery wanted me to meet her in France.  She offered buying a plane ticket. But, I—I can't leave the country. My—my passport is still in San Fra-" 

Her voice cut out again.  Jon found her staring at him finally.  

"Well surely there is somebody there that wouldn't mind grabbing and mailing it, you can travel easier.  Maybe they could board Lady as well?  It might be better if you go to Margaery-"

"Jon, please stop.  Please."  

Caught in his ramble, he could only look at her again.  

"I can't risk somebody doing that.  Not with him like he is, now.  He's scary, Jon."

The tears welled up again in her eyes, shaking almost in pure terror at the thought.  Dread filled her body at the mere mention of him and the thought of sending some one directly in his path scared the absolute shit out of her. 

"You know he can't you hurt you, here.  Sansa.  Please understand he can't get you here."

"You don't know what he can do, Jon."  There was a slight pause.  Sansa breathed heavily as Jon came up to her, leaning again so that he was face to face.  He was crouched by the kitchen table, forearm braced so that he could see her clearly.  So she could hopefully see him clearly.

"I won't ever let him touch you again, do you hear me?  Sansa Stark I promise you."

She shook her head dismissively, looking off past his shoulder as the words took time to process.  

"Just let me help, okay?  I'll do what I can.  We can get everything taken care of from here-"

"I've already overstayed my welcome as is, I can't do this do you.  I need to leave tomorrow."

"Dammit, Sansa you are hurt.  You can't just leave!"  The words left his mouth in a rushed and stinging whisper—some desperate attempt to not yell but somehow get his point across.  

"He killed her!  Jon he killed her because I didn't listen to him.  He tried to kill me two nights ago and sent men to finish the job when that didn't work. Marg's house is destroyed.  You don't understand—I am a liability and I will not let that happen to you too."

Jon blinked back the shock.

"He killed her? What do you mean by-"

Her breathing was becoming ragged and dramatic following her rant, and Sansa could only sit with her hand clutching her side.  

"Lady is dead."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks! I had intended for This to be posted much, much sooner. But my new job has taken over every aspect of my life.
> 
> Thank you again :)

He held his head in annoyance, an awkward angle from his neck as the sun continued to break through the clouds and brighten. The light peaked and blazed through the glass of the restaurant windows, causing a glare that was not helping his headache no matter how he was positioned. It had nearly been four days without the sun—four long days of interviews and bookings. The ink staining the pads of his fingers resided despite the efforts of a shower, black lining throughout all the ridges in his palm.

His mother was staring at him again, the corner of her lip caught in a sneer while eyeing him up and down. This had happened quite a few times in the past few days, so much that he thought nothing of it and gave a wide smile to the waiter that brought liquor in a glass already dewy with condensation. He swallowed back that little urge to vomit—only brought on by his past few hours of drinking heavily. It was almost too early in the morning. But he had also just gotten out of a jail cell. So, _fuck_ if he didn't want to wash down this recent hiccup.

"You are so amazingly like your father you make me sick."

The ice clanged against the glass as he set his drink down on the table, the cloth wet with condensation and seeping with little droplets of black ink that came from his hand. It mixed well as her syllables clicked, making him so suddenly amused of the situation. The wide and flashing white grin never left his face as he could only nod.

"You were good at cleaning up his messes, right mother?"

He wasn't even spared a second glance as she reached for her coffee cup, filled nearly to the brim from the French press at the table. The liquid didn't even slosh as every movement of hers seemed to be so calculated and even delicate. She was well beyond practiced in handling her anger, which made every simple gesture much more terrifying.

"Your father was notorious in the _eighties_ , Joff, there's a difference. People had shitty cameras and it was easy to buy off with stock and cocaine. Now everybody from TMZ to a fucking teenager on Instagram will document every time you take a shit because you have money. I can't just erase that so easily. This is much more complicated—I have to spin whatever I can until something positive comes out. Do you even understand that?"

His fork had strung through his egg, yolk running through his plate and into the bit of toast beside it. Joffrey had taken to dragging the tongs through the mess of yellow, swirling and scraping against the china. He did understand. He understood sometimes his actions had consequences, especially so as he had to spend the night in a jail cell before his mother could even post bail.

"I just don't see why this couldn't be swept under the rug, it's-"

The waiter came by once more, refilling the water glasses to his mother's biting smile and seemed none the wiser of the conversation he was interrupting. This was probably for the best and for once Joffrey was quite glad. It meant the situation was not as terrible.

Fingers dug into is forearm as soon as the waiter left, giving way to them both being alone. They were in a private section of the restaurant to begin with—bought and paid for by Cersei as soon as she had gotten her hands on him. This was the first part of her plan—public attention that was relatively normal, and by _fuck_ was he great at ruining it. Joffrey winced as fingernails bit down into his skin, twisting it harshly and quickly.

"You listen to me, my _darling_ boy," she practically seethed, "You can't step in shit and not expect to smell. You are a public figure and the sole head of a company. You step one proverbial toe just too far out of line and you can lose it." Her fingers snapped in front of his eyes without warning. "Stock, investors, any sort of financial and influential backings. Gone. You cannot expect someone to look after your back when you don't keep theirs well looked after."

Tired and probably just a bit too drunk (or possibly in the early stages of a hangover), Joffrey could only scoff. Blinking back down to his cold egg, he shook his head.

"There's plenty I-"

"Don't. **Even**." The words came so harshly out of her mouth, white teeth biting together in intensity. "This is not a topic taken lightly in today's political climate and there's going to be backlash. Especially seeing as to how you handled things."

His head popped up at that, eyes bobbing as he picked up the knowing in his mother's seething tone. Her grip had tightened and continued to burrow in his skin, so much Joffrey could feel the burning from the pads of her fingers.

"I didn't-"

"Save the excuses, Joffrey. _For Christ's sakes_ —you cannot send people out for assault and murder, especially when this is such high profile, it's-"

"They only followed to retrieve her. Nothing more," He paused in taking the rest of the scotch down, "And besides. It only looks like break-ins attacking high profile housing developments in Napa. Not too far out of the way. I have my bases covered on that end. I will _not_ fuck up wth Sansa again."

Her nostrils pinched with the sharp intake of breath, her gaze only breaking to look again out of the window. It faced the waterway, beautiful and calming. Also disastrously bright and peaceful to the chaos of the weekend. Joffrey took note of the way his mother's hair fell against her shoulder, completely in place. It settled against her pressed dress, an old Calvin Klein she had brought out of retirement with fashion cycles. Not a bit of her look disheveled. She looked every bit of calm and precise. He waited until she turned to him again, taking in the familiarity of her stern features.

"I would just feel better if you let me take care of this situation. Let me do what I can," She stopped pointedly to meet his gaze again, eyes softening to find the green eyes of her son. "I will play this down and try to salvage your public image. I love you so much, and I can't see you throwing all of this away just for _some_ girl."

Joffrey could only smile at his mother, nodding slightly in agreement. His gaze flickered to the table once more, collecting the hardened image of his mother's fingers—barely grazing recent scars and laying against his blackened palm without hesitation. The grip on his arm lightened and soon left.

"Thank you, mother. But I can't just let her go," He sighed, feeling the burn of the alcohol filter down, finally settling in his stomach. It was almost as nauseating as everything else swirling around his body. "Not after what's happened."

The sliver of green eyes trailed down to his arm on the table again, jagged stretches of scars that were fresh and red, biting against his tanned skin. There was a dim falter in the kind look on her face, briefly flashing with anger as her fingers trailed against the swollen cuts. Her touch was delicate and without malice as it curved into the wound.

"Don't worry, my sweet boy. I'm not letting this go so easily"

 

* * *

 

  
It had been a long night. Jon hadn't even thought of sleep after Sansa's brash confession. Instead he had went into some sort of mechanical mindset, working mainly on basic necessities and seeing to it that Sansa had calmed down. He had made sure she had gotten more medicine along with some food, and it hadn't been long after her conversation with Margaery that she had been asleep in his bed once more. Jon had stretched out on the couch, taking into account of all the markings in his ceiling in some sort of attempt to clear his mind. The exertion was utterly useless and he spent most of the time trying to reason and rationalize every single word that had come out of Sansa's mouth.

She had been in a continued state of panic, Jon was fairly certain that it wouldn't change, no matter how hard he tried. He had come to realize that it wasn't just a recent trauma, but some longer experience she was running away from. The thought made his blood boil. His anger was a continuous thing that seemed to bubble ever since he had seen tears running down her face, and while he had some sort of rational mind in sorting her out, he was still absolutely livid. He was pissed at himself for not taking her to a hospital, for not getting full and proper care. Sam was good in his own right, but holy hell after Sansa explaining what happened the other night in just bare details he wondered how she had even made the trip.

She was very lucky to be alive, that much he knew. There were many people that would never make it out of a relationship like that. Jon realized he was a bit naive, as this was such a commonly used trope on tv shows and movies—but it was one of those things that never struck home until it was somebody that was personally known. He tossed and turned throughout the night thinking about that particular detail, of how Sansa- _fucking_ -Stark had fallen into such a vicious cycle.

By four am Jon had constructed not one, but about three different ways to completely maim and murder this Joffrey. However as five am had rolled around he had realized that might have not been the best of progressive actions and was very much reminded of how Robb Stark would be on his way to Seattle in the afternoon (the email had come in thankfully just after he made sure Sansa was comfortable in bed). He wasn't quite sure if their parents had been alerted just yet, but was fairly sure that Robb had listened to him in biding some time. At least until the situation was assessed. Jon knew that Robb sometimes acted before thinking things through, but he was pretty devoted to his family. He would listen to what Sansa wanted first. This wouldn't last long, however. The family had always been tight knit, and as soon as this came to light? There would be absolute hell to pay. But for now, Jon relished in the fact that it was just Robb (who might have always been overzealous), but was ultimately Sansa's older brother. He would get her sorted out probably better than anybody else, and hopefully make her realize that some sort of action needed to be taken without fear.

Jon knew that fear wouldn't leave Sansa. And he knew it would probably heighten when she would come to the realization that he had broken just one of her few requests. He hated the thought of it, especially after hearing her sob over the phone with Margaery. There was a sense of dread definitely rising up in him, anxious and nauseating at the mere thought of betraying her. But ultimately he knew it was best. Best for _her_. Best for _him_. Best for making sure that all of their lives got _back on track._

So he had finally decided that he would tell Sansa tomorrow morning after breakfast, hopefully with some medicine and after food so she would take the news in stride. He realized it was an awfully manipulative thing to do—but he couldn't have another episode of her having a full on freak out. He needed to make her see that she was completely safe and he would take every measure to ensure her safety. That her family would do the same without hesitation. Hopefully she would see that he only had her best interests in thought and not that it was a complete betrayal.

 

* * *

 

Jon sat with a steaming cup of coffee, still collected in his thoughts and fresh out of the shower when he heard the rustling in the next room. Ghost had come out earlier and they had went for a quick walk around the building, and ever since all had been quiet. He would usually relish in those few moments before work, attempting to scarf down food before he had to leave. He had sent an email to HR the night previous to take a couple of personal days and the extra time left him resting at the kitchen table listlessly. Whenever he had heard her shifting around he had jumped up without hesitation, having some memory of her struggling to walk last night.

"Sansa," his voice was warmed from the half pot of coffee he had already consumed, and he prayed she wouldn't be able to hear how tired he was from his voice.

There was no direct answer and so he quickly made his way down the hall, hand stretched for knocking when Sansa pulled back the door to his bedroom quickly. While Jon expected to see the same tiredness and dragging in her face, he was enlightened by fury. Blue eyes bored into him, anger swirling around. Her cellphone glowed brightly in her hand, fingers clenched so hard he could see her knuckles were white again.

 _Fuck_.

"When were you going to tell me about Robb?"

The words died in his throat as he looked at her, struggling to stand straight against his doorframe once again. He wanted to make the move to help her, to be a quick brace once again. But he knew better, especially so when he heard her speak again. There was a bitter tone to her voice, cold and biting.

"-would you be happy to have their blood on your hands? Do you realize all that is at stake, Jon? It's not just to me—it is my whole family you just put into jeopardy. Their lives-"

Her hand was thrown up when Jon took her fully into account again, locking eyes. He knew he needed to speak before she went too far, and hurt herself.

"And how do you know?" He all but bellowed, not even expecting his voice to be loud as it was. He coughed, noticing how she just so slowly pulled back from him. Ghost still laid on the bed, curled into the comforter and casually watching with his ears perked.

"Sansa, he is not a fucking contract killer, he is not a mob boss in a movie. He's a real estate person, CEO, what-fucking-ever. He cannot come get you from me or your family. He cannot hurt your family like this. Please understand we will keep you safe. That piece of shit is away from you now. He won't come get you and I can promise that."

Her jaw clenched, hesitation pulling at her mouth as she reached to speak again, but was cut off by a mere look.

"There will have to be dealings with him in the future, I will admit. But _please_. I just want you to know he can't control you anymore, Sansa."

There was a moment of silence once more. Perhaps he had been too harsh in telling her. He had always been more like that since the war. Maybe even more so after the accident. In his head he had went over all the reasonings of how and why she would be okay. However his inner conversations never got to see the light of day. Because if it was one thing Jon was good at—it was shoving his goddamn foot in his mouth and with fervor.

"You don't know him," Sansa mumbled, pushing past him in an instant. She limped heavily as she made her way down the hall and Jon was found absolutely speechless. He stood there for a moment, mouth agape as he saw her struggle through the kitchen and living on a straight path—his front door.

"Sansa! Sansa, wait, wait!

His brain turned to action in a quick moment, moving quickly to get back to her with Ghost following him so quickly on his heels, giving a playful bark. It didn't take long to reach her and while his instincts wanted to grab the door and bar her from leaving, he knew that wouldn't be the best option. Especially with the whole level of trust going down the toilet in the past five minutes. Instead he just stood in front of her, his breath just a bit heavy.

"I only wanted to keep you safe. This was the only way I knew how”

There was silence again, only broken up by her labored breathing and the steady thump of the dog’s tail. Jon took in her ragged form. Despite the pure anger that made its way through every visible part of her body, he could see she was still haggard. Her hair was askew and had been attempted to have been braided. Her shoulder hung somewhat limp—he supposed to counteract the pain from her ribs. A line of red, swollen stitches peeked out of his shirt’s collar, looking as if they had continued to have been picked and pulled (Jon was absolutely _sure_ Sam had said he had restitched, however). Her look was somewhat perfected by the mottling of bruises, edging around her eye and cheek with a puffiness, and littering her forearms with black and purple. And by the time Jon had made eye contact with her again, he saw the steady realization dawn on her. He felt the lowly, sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I know you just want me gone Jon,” She swallowed, giving him plenty of time to protest. Instead, his reaction hung guiltily in his throat once more. “I know that I’m a burden right now, and I appreciate everything that has been done. I’ll never be able to repay you...”

Her grip had steadied on the doorframe once more, and Jon cursed as this was becoming all too familiar of a sight. He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t all, too much of a burden—but he might have wanted her gone. Might not have wanted this whole situation on his plate. He had a feeling she already knew that.

“Sansa, I-“

Her palm waved up, dismissing him all too quickly. Jon silenced, his lips becoming a very fine line as his mouth drew straight. Her expression was still angry, only overshadowed by a mounting look of pain. Jon was suddenly aware of the orange bottle that sat on his kitchen table, ready for breakfast and waiting for this conversation that they were having now.

There was a dull buzz as the phone vibrated in her hand, and Sansa paused to stare down at the screen. He saw a bright flash of blonde and piercing eyes. _Margaery_. It rang to voicemail.

“I need to go before it’s too late, Jon. I would have thought you’d understand.”

 

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments! You guys are absolutely lovely.

Sansa couldn't even begin to think. Couldn't even begin to comprehend everything that had just come out of her and Jon's conversation. His words were sinking in, leaving a bitter taste that lingered and burned. He had called Robb. _Robb_. And Sansa knew that after Robb came everybody else and she hoped to God that this was all some sort of hallucination. The one resounding thought that caught her was that Jon _knew_. Jon had seen what damage this man brought—the utter destruction and chaos and he still went around her like she had no say in the matter. Like everything she had told him so far was completely meaningless.

Sansa choked at the thought. It was true, he had completely gone around her and disregarded nearly everything she had told him. It jarred her that the thought of trust and even safety were ever fleeting. This one place that she had deemed safe for the time being. Sansa had never truly thought to stay in Seattle with Jon for a long while—just enough to get her bearings back. She just needed to walk and not feel woozy. She needed to be able to move without every joint and bone protesting. But instead she had just found the same type of place with the same type of people. And Sansa knew, _knew_ that if she stayed here something bad would follow. Something downright horrible without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt would come. No matter what Jon thought—she wasn't overreacting to this. Or was she?

She should rightfully be fucking angry that he had reached out to Robb—had went to him without telling her. Without having the courtesy of letting her know. Jon just thought he understood everything but, he didn't. Even after Sansa had sat and explained everything out to him with Lady and rushing around the fact that Joffrey had sent men after her. Even after seeing the ugliness of her body. He thought he understood what _this_ was. Whatever this situation with Joffrey was, and that it would be so easy to just keep her away from him. That putting her around family would change the atmosphere and get her out of his hair. It was an easy drop. Especially after taking some measure to take care of her. She halfway couldn't blame him, Sansa had cast this shitty life of hers on him without so much of a hello. She shouldn't have expected anything less out of him. After all, Sansa Stark was never really close with Jon Snow.

  
"Can you at least stay until Robb gets in, Sans? It won't be long."

Was he? Holy ever loving fuck—was he trying to _reason_ with her? Sansa's thoughts weren't that clear. But did he think she had no sort of comprehension? That this was all just shock? Honestly she hadn't been clearheaded in the past few days, only a consistent jumble of chaos. Or perhaps he was just trying to get her attention, maybe to but himself some time. She realized that she had not been focusing on him for awhile, staring at the door frame to look at anywhere but him. Because every time she did see him, all she saw was anger, the familiar calmness that came with betrayal. It infuriated and broke her all at once. Because his face stayed solemn and his eyebrows knitted. She still couldn't tell if it was only for pity, she had wanted to believe there was some sort of concern. His actions spoke in much larger volumes than that, however.

She met his eye, finally. The ghost of a word formed over her lips before he even had a chance to speak.

"No."

She wasn't sure if the word had even left her mouth, it had just been echoing in her head over and over once she had processed the sentence. A loud, pounding repeat. The wash of concern over his face gave way that he had heard her. It was confusing, really. Did he want her here? After all of this she had just dumped into his life—into a life she didn't know anymore. How could anybody want to take on that sort of hassle?

There was a loud exhale and Sansa watched carefully as Jon deflated in front of her. His shoulders sagged, his face immediately downtrodden. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, taking another moment.

"I'm sorry I did it. I am." Another breath. "I'm not lying to you, Sansa. But you have to realize-"

"No, no. No, you do not get to tell me what I need to think or need to know, Jon Snow. That's not how this works. I'm not crippled, I'm not incapable of forming my own opinions and knowledge of this whole _fucked_ up situation. He won't stop until he gets what he wants."

Jon's mouth flew open in response, but Sansa shook her head again in an immediate dismissal.

  
"I think it's me. I've told you before that endangers everybody around me," Sansa paused again, her eyebrows knotting in contemplation as the fleeting idea passed through. "I need to disappear. After this I just need to be _gone_ ," She whispered.

"Do you think that will make him leave you alone?"

Sansa was caught at Jon's voice, deep and gruff once more. She realized he had been holding back on his words again, for once letting her finish a sentence.

"Of course not. He's the kind of person that only slows down when they get what they want. But it will make sure nobody else gets hurt in the process."

A shudder ran through Sansa as the small wave of pain crept up her body, making its home in her side with a steady force. Her knuckles turned white against the wood of the door frame, and she once again found herself laying heavily against Jon's front door. Ironically this time in some desperate need to leave.

Jon didn't miss a beat, however and came to her side in a moment. His arm wasn't barring the door as it had just seconds before, but instead supported her sagging shoulders as he turned to take on her body weight. Sansa's hand was on his shoulder in a quick protest, her palm landing and giving a light hit. Jon paid no mind, urging her to come to the kitchen table and taking care and time in depositing her in a chair. The wood was terribly uncomfortable and hard, so Sansa leaned on the table, resting fully on her elbows to counteract the waves running through her core.

"Then he can come here, Sansa." He made a point to jab the white-tiled countertop. Anger was laced in his voice, some sort of irritation that Sansa was fairly sure she had caused. Did he think she was lying again?

"Dammit, Jon!"

  
She slapped her hand on the table as she shouted. Raking over everything that he had said to her since she had arrived yesterday morning, it ranged from calling off the safety of her family to the fact that he was declaring some martyr mission if Joffrey even decided to do anything. She couldn't decipher what end of the spectrum he wanted to be on. He was giving off a pure mix of emotions. To show that he was caring and compassionate—or that he could betray and diminish trust all too quickly.

"I don't want him to show you what he can do. I don't want you to be stuck in the middle of this-"

"You drug me into the middle of this, Sansa! Especially when you made the decision to come to my front door. I'm glad you did make that choice, please don't get that wrong. But I'm too involved now. I can't let you go not knowing if you'll be alright."

Sansa was tired. Dead and painfully tired and every word that came out of her was a strong effort. She looked at him with every emotion pulling through her at once.

"You mean you'll sleep better at night when I get passed off to somebody else."

She knew it to be true, knew the words to be all too piercing as they left. But much like a wounded animal she gave some sort of fighting spirit, using all her efforts and strengths to make a blow that would leave a smarting wound.

His face showed that her aim was pretty accurate and despite the pain creeping up into her consciousness Sansa could recognize that he was visibly shocked by her statement. It wasn't an untrue thought, but perhaps a bit over exaggerated. As seen by his reaction that seemed to be the only thing Sansa said that would resonate with Jon.

"You can't, cannot-"

His words ended with a soft sound, sputtering as he never finished the sentence. It instead faded off the tip of his tongue, ending with his concentration. She was glad to have finally made comment that he could invest in, however.

"I did not expect to stay with you for long, Jon," She started after the silence thickened in the kitchen, grating and biting at the both of them—in some anxious manner that Sansa wondered she was only imagining. "I only wanted to feel safe again, if that matters. I knew that if I could get on my feet again, then this would be a good place to leave."

There was a large exhale and Sansa opened her eyes as she heard the familiar slump of limbs knocking the wood of cabinet doors. She hazily looked on as she saw the softness in Jon that had been ever present since she had arrived—the warmth once again filling his eyes as concern spread through the rest of his expression. Sansa realized that he had somewhat of a good intention. That he couldn't possibly understand all of...this. She was trying to make him comprehend of something that had been impossible in her own world up until recently.

"Does he scare you that much?" He finally voiced.

There was silence again and Sansa braced against the table as she tried to think of what could be the right thing to say. She felt like her whole life had bee on display these past few hours, so overexposed and public. To a person she felt like she barely knew.

_He's taken so much from me._

_He's ruined my life._

_He's tried to kill me._

Sansa's thoughts echoed around the basic things she had told Jon, even from when she fell bleeding in his living room. Everything she had said was built on adrenaline and the intoxication of fear. It was heightened and peaking in and around her as she tried to swallow down the thought of just him. Just Joffrey. The image itself sent a shudder down her spine. Pulling the strands of fallen hair out of face, she met Jon's eye again. He had been standing there as she deliberated through the list of what would be the easiest thing to say—watching her again as if she was on display.

"Yes," Sansa answered finally, shaking her head at the simplicity of the thought.

She watched as Jon swallowed whatever thought was rising up, and was so thankful that he decided not to voice whatever it was. To argue with her again of how she was overthinking things. To explain to her that she was wrong and completely safe. To throw all her concerns to the side because she was in a state of shock. Instead, he said nothing. He kept the sentence all to himself.

"What can I do?" Jon finally spoke, to what sounded like betrayed his every thought and basic instinct.

"Just call Robb. Tell him—tell him not yet."

The air exhaled out was loud and she watched as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, index finger and thumb stretching to pull at the corners of his eyes. There were darkened circles that molded and moved with his fingers, swollen and puffy. There were deeper lines on his face, wrinkles etched into his forehead as his eyebrows pulled together again. Finally he bit his lip, giving a short nod. Sansa watched tiredly as he swallowed down the thought.

"Okay," He mumbled

His voice felt almost too soft as she took him into account, reciprocating his nodding and Sansa responded in a much similar tone.

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

 

Jon watched carefully as Sansa piddled around the food on her plate, her fork dragging through rice and vegetables of the stir-fry she had ordered. He knew the pain medication didn't mix well with any sort of appetite. Sansa hadn't talked to him at all throughout the day, only taking the medication when prompted and returning to his bedroom to sleep once it finally kicked in. Ghost was in hog heaven, enjoying the time that he got to stay wallowed in Jon's bed and scratched by Sansa. The attention was not lost on him and it was with some annoyed mirth that at least somebody was content that day. Jon had made the phone call to Robb after arguing with himself and had to leave the apartment to finally settle that they were trying to do what was best for Sansa. He had just told Robb to reschedule his trip whenever Sansa finally decided to call him. That they would discuss it with everybody whenever the time came about. Jon reckoned it would only be a few days, once Sansa saw that she was truly safe—but he wasn't going to push his luck again. While this situation wasn't truly ideal in any form or fashion, Jon knew that he had to keep her comfortable to some lengths to make any progress. He had pushed her out of her comfort levels on more than one occasion since she had knocked on his door.

Robb, of course, had put up a fight. Money was no matter with a plane ticket, but rather the fact that Sansa was unsettled by him coming out there. Whenever Jon was out of earshot of Sansa (in fact she had been drugged and asleep on medication, locked in his apartment), he had explained about the death threats. How Sansa was scared for her family and that Joffrey had promised that he would take out his threats if Sansa had uttered any word against him to them. Robb, had fucking lost it when the conversation had come to that point. Mainly saying of how Joffrey had intimidated her that much and how he was a sorry piece of shit. All facts that Jon agreed with, but was rather calm in voicing as Robb went into a tirade. It had taken all of his willpower to convince Robb to stay at that point. His brain kept to replaying his previous conversation with Sansa that morning, echoing over and over of her replying with a simple yes after he had asked if Joffrey had frightened her. And so he had fought against Robb, explaining (and not going into a great amount of detail) that Sansa had every right to be scared. That she had every right to be terrified and just want a moment of peace. Robb had quieted down soon after, only saying that he would be available whenever she wanted to make that call. Jon assured him once again that he would take care of her—that he would make sure she would be okay in the meantime and the conversation had been left on a tense and unsteady ground.

"Do you remember the kidney pies Old Nan would make?"

Sansa's voice suddenly jolted him out of his thoughts, pulling his full attention to her and not the rounds of bullshit that had been the past couple of days.

"With the peas and onions?" Jon answered, a short lived smile pulling as he met her gaze. He caught the thin mask of surprise that quickly dissolved off her face, a subtle reaction that he had responded to her so quickly. He smiled again at the fact she had that enough of an ability to focus and especially at the fact that she nodded at him. Old Nan seemed a thing of the very, very far past. Jon could easily say he hadn't thought of the woman in ages. She was an old, senile thing. But a damn good cook.

"I craved those things for weeks whenever I started my spring semester. Couldn't find anything in town that seemed to be the same," Sansa paused again, pushing a single snow pea around as a noodle was delicately tied through the tongs of her fork. It was such a soft movement, Jon thought, so precise and intricate. This was how he remembered Sansa.

"I got lost one day, trying to find some sort of vintage shop off campus. Just happened to find a Chinese place clear on the other side of the city. Had the best dumplings and veggie lo mein I've ever eaten. It took forty bucks to get back to school but it was so good. They put fresh peas in it. Just like this," She emphasized, the snow pea now stabbed and secure as she waved it around as evidence.

There was a long silence again. There were about a billion things running through Jon's head, trying to comprehend and respond to what Sansa had said. Was she accepting this food as an apology? Or maybe some sort of peace offering? Jon did recognize it as some attempt to come to level ground with him. Perhaps not a full on olive branch, but maybe offering him some sort of hope that she wouldn't fight him on everything.

"It just, it just reminds me of home. And I, uh I just wanted to say thank-"

Sansa was broken off by a heavy pounding at the door, the piece of wood moving ever so slightly with the noise. Wide eyes met with Jon's as she met his gaze, the sound dying in her throat. It was an instant, blinding effect. The fork fell solidly against the table, clattering and clanging as it slipped from her hand. A panicked expression seized her facial features, seemingly working its way into her limbs as Sansa stood in a hurry. Jon watched as she bit into the back of her hand, doubling over the table as the movement was too much. He pushed himself away from the table, stretching over the top of her shoulders to hold her up and keep her at right angle. Her breaths were rapid and he could feel the wheezing and rattling in her lungs as she kept it up.

A thunderous knock rang out again and Jon could swear he saw the deadbolt shake with the blow. A loud, demanding voice followed soon after. "Seattle PD, open up!"

 _Shit_.

Jon pulled her up to face him fully, bringing his index finger to his mouth. Sansa could only nod softly, her chest rising and falling as her fingers clenched to the sleeves of his t-shirt. She was now standing on her own, swaying a bit and moving from Jon as the door shook again. Pointing down the hallway, he motioned for her to go into his bedroom. "Close the door," he mouthed, seeing her nod quickly in affirmation.

Without haste Jon moved to get Sansa's dishes off of the kitchen table, scurrying to pick up the take out platters and throw them in the trash bin. The two glasses still sat on the table, rings of perspiration left on the wood. _Fuck_. He grabbed both of the glasses, throwing them in the sink and taking another one from the cabinet just for good measure to add into the mix.

Jon's own breath had increased as he took a look around, seeing nothing else that was Sansa's laying around or even remotely related to her. Scanning the area he made a quick note that her duffel bag was nowhere to be seen, as was her phone. In fact it looked like he could be the only person in the apartment. He made his way to the door, taking a quick look down the hallway to find it completely empty. Standing by the door frame Jon made note that there was more than one voice outside. Moving the cover for his peephole, he took a quick look out—only to meet the steely cold glance of a man. Two more figures stood behind him, both clad in darker clothing but none of them in a standard police uniform.

"Can I help you with something?"

The man at the front of his landing stood taller as Jon had finally responded, giving a quick look up at the peephole before taking a step towards the door. A badge shown brightly in his line of sight, gold set in a black leather. Seattle Police Department covered the top of his ID in big, blue letters.

"I'm a detective, we're here to investigate a missing persons report. Can we come in?"

Jon cleared his throat, assessing the two other men behind the guy. "Not unless you have a warrant, right here is just fine."

An exasperated sigh echoed through the outside hall and it was soon followed by the sound of paper crumpling. A smooth, folded out piece of paper replaced the man's badge, a signed warrant in its place. _Oh, fuck_. This was worse than what he had anticipated. Jon had nothing to hide, however. He had nothing to cover for. But if these guys were real? The thought passed over all too quickly of what Sansa may have done. Jon tried to swallow that down as he unlocked the brass fixtures, pulling the wood back.

"Can I see the warrant?" Jon asked with an outstretched hand, only to be passed by as the three men shoved their way through the door and into his apartment. The leader balled up the folded paper in his fist with a charming smile.

"No need, Jon _Snow_." The words came from the man so smoothly and emphasized his last name with such a common disdain. It wasn't anything Jon wasn't used to hearing, especially in the military. But who the fuck was this guy and why was he so assured he could he throw that tone around so lightly, as if Jon was training back in basic?

Fingers raked through his hair as the men filtered about, kicking under his couch and swinging cabinet doors opened with gusto. They seemed to take pleasure in pulled every little item out and it was soon that half the contents of Jon's bookcase laid sprawled out on the floor. His blood was absolutely boiling. These men, these- _Fuck_. It clicked in his head that these, _these were the men._  The men that had done this to Sansa.

He moved with them as they filtered through his apartment, following the taller one. The man had dark, almost black eyes and gray along the side of his face. His cheeks and stomach were both a bit bloated, almost as if this man enjoyed the drink far too much. Jon took a whiff and managed the man had been drinking not too long ago judging by the stench of cheap beer radiating.

"Look, I don't know why you're here. But you better leave before I call the real authorities. This is breaking and entering."

Jon eyed the man as he turned on him, taking him fully into account. Besides the beer gut and red cheeks, the man had what looked like a .38 revolver hanging on his hip. _Now that was weird._ The man's fingers danced over the handle of the gun as Jon processed the thought, showing off the gold swirled around in the handle. Jon knew better than this. He did. Six years in special forces and working with police force overseas and he knew for damn sure that officers did not carry firearms that were not semiautomatic. Jon kept his eyes trained on the man's fingers. He seemed trigger happy as his palm danced away against his holster. Jon was truly surprised he didn't have the fucking thing in the waistband of his jeans at this rate. This guy was just a cheap and trashy hired gun. Flashing everything off to show some sort of authority. Jon had dealt with worse, he reckoned as he gave a quick scan to the rest of this man. What really got his attention was the swollen welts running down the man's forearm, red and puffy underneath a rolled up sleeve. They were fingernail scratches. Jon immediately met the man in the eye, moving so he couldn't leave his laundry room and keeping a solid stance.

"You think the real pigs are going to scare me, army boy? I'm just doing my job and if you keeping jabbering that pretty little mouth of yours, you could be part of the detail."

A thick finger was jabbed into his chest as the man spoke, poking him several times throughout the sentence. His other hand had stayed diligently on his hip, and Jon heard the tell-tale click of the hammer. Jon swallowed it all down, however, trying to keep his face as calm as possible. He had training for this, months of recon and undercover work overseas. It would take more than some fucking thug yacking away to get him to lose his composure.

"Meryn, that isn't part of the program. Due diligence-"

Jon had turned to acknowledge the other man behind him, half aware that this Meryn guy had closed in the gap between him as well. Jon moved to his other foot, making space and heading towards the other two men. Taking a quick glance around he saw his bathroom door wide open with every light on and the window to the fire escape fully pulled up, letting rain collect on the ledge. What caught his attention was the third guy, standing at the open door of his bedroom.

Jon felt his heart come up into his throat. _Sansa was in there._ His pulse hammered away and burst through his eardrums as he guy continued to move inwards, only blocked off by a loud and deafening growl. Ghost was no longer sprawled out and comfortable on the bed—no he was standing with what Jon could swear was every hair on his body erect. The fucking dog was huge, Jon knew. But as Ghost stood there with his teeth bared and ears laid back he looked to be the size of a goddamn wolf.

"Call the hound off, army man."

Jon said nothing, but watched as the three men backed away slowly, not one of them turning their backs to Ghost. Ghost followed, his paws taking steady steps with a very slow ease. Jon moved quickly to get behind the dog, Ghost moving towards the trio barking and snarling. Steadily he grabbed for his collar, pulling his arm ever so slightly to bring the dog back.

"You need to leave, now."

Jon made the movement to get around the dog, walking towards the men. One had a Bowie knife while the other still fingered the gun and the third man stood straighter with his hands firmly set in his coat pockets.

"Gentlemen, it's been another dry run. Let's not waste military time, here."

Jon stared them down taking a few more steps for some sort of intimidation. It worked, as they all three went back. The leader of the group was much more casual, thanking him for his time. Jon scoffed at the effort, but tried to keep up face so they would continue on without any sort of delay.

"Yeah, have a good night, Meryn."

The name repeated caused the man to stop, his fingertips dancing ever so slightly on the gun again. Jon braced as he realized that maybe this was an overstepped line and he was in a clear firing range. Instead the man turned to his counterpart, swiftly pulling the hunting knife out of his hands. With a smile he turned to Jon, and sunk the tip of the knife into the couch as he walked by. The metal cut through the leather and cushioning, dragging and spilling out.

"Oops."

Jon's jaw clenched and he let go of Ghost's collar in that moment, taking a step towards the two left in his apartment. They scrambled as the dog bounded to them and Jon only stopped to whistle when Ghost was only two or three feet away. They jumped out of the door, stampeding down the hall with their cheap steel-toed boots and hitting everything possible on their way out.

Jon could finally breathe as he closed the apartment door, locking the deadbolt in an instant. He halfway ran down the hall to the open window, sticking his head out to look at the street below. A gray Dodge Challenger revved up and came to life, lights set on bright as it jerked into traffic and out of the way. Jon closed and locked the window as well, his back leaning against the wooden frame as he struggled to catch his breath.

Holy ever loving **shit**. They had followed her all the way here. They had followed her to Seattle. To his apartment. Breathing out heavily, Jon's hands peaked and rubbed down the bridge of his nose. This was more than he had signed up for. This was more than he had ever expected out of this guy.

Sniffing, Jon took an inventory of his wrecked apartment. His TV lay face down on the floor, glass circling around–while his bookcase hung at an awkward angle with most everything having fallen off. His kitchen table had been knocked over and there was no way in hell his couch could be recovered. A glance to his right showed everything pulled out of his medicine cabinet, a mixture of pills and orange bottles laying on the formica countertop.

He knew one thing. He was in over his fucking head.


End file.
